


What's in a Name?

by Dedicate Kiwicrocus (cranky__crocus)



Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-27
Updated: 2010-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:05:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranky__crocus/pseuds/Dedicate%20Kiwicrocus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niva (pre-ordained Rosethorn) recalls a special day while at Lightsbridge and later memorialises both days with her name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's in a Name?

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this when I considered Briar's thoughts of Rosethorn and thought that it must have been similar statements that lead her to her chosen name. I intended to do one for Lark as well but have not yet got around to it.

            “Niva?  Niva, where are you?” a young man called from the balcony above the gardens. He was tall and striking with his jet-black hair and cutting figure in a crisp white shirt and dark, lustrous breeches; even his boots were shined. He did not look like the average scoundrel example of the tired, overworked university student part. His sharp but handsome features—only minutely feminine—balanced his large nose. His striking eyes were busy scanning the greenery for a sight of his companion.

            “I’m directly below you, I presume, as you haven’t spotted me,” a sharp feminine voice replied from below the balcony. “What do you want?”

            “We have class in three minutes two buildings away. I’m already going to be late for collecting you. Won’t you hurry?” As he spoke he strutted to the stairs and gracefully descended two at a time.

            “I’m not up for it today. If you’ll pardon me, I’d prefer to continue tending the peperomia,” the woman replied with the sharp edge still present in her voice. She was kneeling under a group of plants with fleshy oval leaves. Her hair was long and fiery, dissembling her features.  The clothing she wore was fashionable but dirtied with soil and plant stains.

            “What do you mean, ‘you’re not up for it’?” the young man mocked as he stood straight, one hand in the deep pocket of his breeches.

            The woman stood with crossed arms and defiance not only in her tense posture but also her aggravated brown eyes. “What I _mean_ is that my presence will not be found in class. Class will go on and you _will_ be in it.”

            “Niva, I will not allow you to skip this class; it’s important to you. Gods know it’s hard to admit, but you’re achieving top marks in the class even above my own. Do you think that will remain so if you skip class without sickness or an event meriting absence?” Despite his intimidating stance, his voice softened. The concern became evident in the slope of his neck—craning to examining the young woman—and his hand, which was inching closer to the female.

            “I’m not going. If what you say is true then I can afford to miss a class. I will not explain to you why my attendance slips, but all the same you will not bring me there,” Niva answered sternly.  Her strong chin stuck out and pulled attention to the fire in her eyes.

            “Oh, don’t be stubborn, Niva,” Isas whispered, exasperated.  He sat on the bench to his right—directly below the balcony—and arranged himself. When he gave the empty seat to his side a pat, the woman merely glared. “I’m concerned. This is your favourite subject: why would you wish to miss learning about garden plants?”

            The woman gave him a look; he read it as ‘are you dense’? Isas stifled the offended feelings—he certainly was _not_ dense.

            “I _do not_ wish to miss class, but as I said a moment ago, I’m not up for it. I would retain nothing if I went. Right now I need to be alone with these plants, who face the shears of the gardener much too frequently,” she responded and walked to a group of wax begonias planted together. Isas noted the attempt to chance the subject—the two often debated over how often different plants should be pruned. He didn’t fall for it. Niva obviously didn’t wish to talk about herself and that most likely meant that it was exactly what she needed most. But should he pry?

            “Is that the only way I may help you, by leaving? I care for you immensely, Niva, and only wish to help.”

            “Then leave,” the woman snapped simply as she turned on him and watched sidelong over her shoulder. It took someone close to her to see that her eyes were beginning to water.

            Isas shook his head slowly and let it fall forward; he couldn’t continue or it would end in a long argument. He didn’t want that. Instead, he nodded and stood. With a deep breath he endeavoured to add gentleness to his domineering stature and presence. It was difficult to keep his breath steady as he walked to the female and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

            She tensed up and grew rigid. Isas had to mentally kick himself to continue breathing and not hold it in.

            “Oh, Niva. You’re as alluring and stunning as the finest rose, but you certainly come with the sharpest and longest thorns. I love you and hope the time you spend with the plants will ease and organise your mind.” With a kiss to the top of her chestnut head he let go and walked off through the garden archway to get to class.

            Niva took a deep breath as she stumbled to sit down. Tears streamed down her ivory cheeks.

            “I wish I could just tell him, but I love him too much and he would turn away from me,” she groaned quietly through sobs. As the last sob attacked her shoulders and the final string of her energy ebbed away, she slumped to the garden floor and lay still.

She recalled the smiling face of her oldest Anderran friend, her first love and lover and the child-turned-woman precociously at the hands of raiders. Niva mourned for the day she could not spend with her longest love.

“Happy birthday, Arua.”

 

 

Niva sighed and leaned against the table upon which she worked. She was stuck in the Water Temple for the third time that week. How much work could she possible be assigned in a place she so obviously did not enjoy? Maybe she was being tested yet again…

            She was careful not to let a grumble or groan escape when Willowwater entered the room and began to fidget with the proud green bamboo. Niva wished to slap the woman’s hand away—the stones that kept the bamboo upright in its pot were carefully placed: moving the plants around would do no good. Before she could do a lesser equivalent of hitting those bothersome hands away, Willow stopped and continued watching the chestnut-haired novice.

            The tension and suspense became nearly unbearable. Niva was ready to take a stick of bamboo and stick it in one ear until it came out the other side.

            At last came, “What name will you take at your Dedication Service?”

            Niva jumped at the voice—after all that wait it seemed sudden. She pondered whether to give the name.

Oh, it’s only a name, she thought.  I’m not spilling my life story or anything.

            “Rosethorn,” the novice replied simply.

            The Dedicate kept her eyes on Niva and appeared to consider how fit the name was; at last she nodded. A smile graced her lips and eyes even as she asked, “Why?”

            The plant mage felt her face fall. That _would_ be spilling her life story, for the most part. Did she have _any_ desire to share that much about herself, particularly to _Willowwwater_? It _would_ keep her from boredom—she could finish her work quickly but then would have too much time in her rest period—and she wouldn’t mind the added shock value… Plus, wasn’t it Good and Holy to be open and honest?

            “Well…” Niva started as she began to clean the bamboo pot and free it of algae.  The story started with her time with the mudrollers and her ‘best friend’ Arua. At thirteen the two had become closer than two women were supposed to in their village. They had fallen desperately, madly in love but hid it from everyone as to save themselves from banishment or worse: death. Years later when the raiders came, Arua had been abused and raped. After that she had gone inside herself: barely spoke, lost her wonder for life, became utterly submissive. The only time she was even _close_ to herself was with Niva.

            There came a time when Niva truly needed to leave. The raiders were finishing their victims off with a crescendo. She couldn’t take it anymore—seeing her mother die abused and her father protecting her was too much for Niva. Arua had told her, in one perfect moment of clarity and self, to leave. “You have magic, something they can’t take from you. If anyone in this village can make it, Niva, it’s you,” she had said with a warm embrace. They traded words of love and promises to stay in touch before she left.

            Then there was Crane. She loved him even as he was becoming more the aristocrat every day. That day at Lightsbridge had been Arua’s birthday, yet Niva had been unable to discuss it and her grief with Isas; he would have been disgusted and would have hated her.

            When the story was complete, Niva’s work was done. She looked up at Willowwater to see the woman offering a melancholy smile and empathy through her patient eyes. The plant mage was ready for the look to become repulsed and violent; she remained tense.

            “You’re in the right place. Do you know that tall, cat-like woman that came here for a while a year ago when a disease stopped her from tumbling?”

            Niva nodded; she had helped with the strong balms and medicines the woman had needed. The green mage had also seen her quite a few times during her trips to the Mire, which she had started as soon as she had become a novice.

            “Well, I’m currently with her,” Willowwater continued. “Things like that just happen. Love isn’t something to control. I love Miha but I have also loved men. She only loves other women. Other men, like Frostpine, love only other men. I won’t even go into all the things to do with gender. It’s all accepted here by rule. True, some may not by personal opinion, but remember in those cases that you are doing nothing wrong and have nothing to be ashamed of. And Isas, of course, is now here as well.”

            Niva openly gaped. This wasn’t the way things went; what was going on? First, Willowwater was making sense (an affront to her opinion of Water Dedicates). Second, she was being authentic and offering information close to her heart that was _helpful_. The hardest point to grasp was that the speech struck hope into Niva’s heart. What could she possibly reply?

            “Thank you,” the young woman started slowly. “It’s… comforting.”

            Willowwater nodded and smiled her most mature smile. Her eyes were kind and, somehow, maternal. It all surprised Niva to no end. Why was this woman helping her?

            “I’m glad, Rosethorn,” the older woman responded gently.

            “What?”

            “I like to call future dedicates by their chosen dedication names to acclimate them to it,” Willow responded as she began to walk towards the door.  Before she truly left she added, “I like it: it’s fitting.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed it. (:


End file.
